I could draw Bloom County with my nose and pay my cleaning lady to write it, and I'd bet I wouldn't lose 10% of my papers over the next twenty years. Such is the nature of comic-strips. Once established, their half-life is usually more than nuclear waste.

And just as it is with all proper grannies, she ordered me into my pink bunny jammies.

My kids hear me behind my door, giggling like an idiot, and they roll their eyes at the blatant indignity of it all.

It was a huge challenge to learn digital painting well enough so that computers don't pop into mind when one sees one.

Liberal, shmiberal. That should be a new word. Shmiberal: one who is assumed liberal, just because he's a professional whiner in the newspaper. If you'll read the subtext for many of those old strips, you'll find the heart of an old-fashioned Libertarian. And I'd be a Libertarian, if they weren't all a bunch of tax-dodging professional whiners.

If I could have drawn a cat yelling for lasagna every day for 15 years and have them pay me $30 million to do so, I would have.

It's not terribly dignified to have anyone seeing one laugh at one's own material.